#filled with anonymous orange drink watered down with ice melt

[cchanticleer]

intsys said 'yeah sorry about all those plot threads we dropped and never picked back up. have some acres of flesh as compensation'

in my heart f!shez also gets to have the sick circle shades

[slippinmickeys]

The Post

From a Tumblr anonymous prompt: “ Prompt for AU where Mulder is an investigative reporter and Scully is a Pathologist. They bicker and work together to get to the bottom of mysterious deaths and fall in love along the way. Scully is engaged to Ethan, Mulder's competition, but she is not happy or aware that he is cheating on her. Bonus points for angst, fluff, and smut.“

1.

“You can’t tell anyone I gave this to you,” she said, and he had a sudden almost-psychic sexual flash of his cock splitting the soft autumn fur at her center. Of her head thrown back, her sharp little incisors gnashing at the air.

He shook his head to clear it of the indecorus fantasy.

“The Post protects its sources, Dr. Scully,” he said, and took the envelope from her, his fingers brushing the skin of her hand as he did so. He was certain he saw the soft hairs of her wrist turn to goose flesh.

She turned her head away, offering him her profile, a soft rise of color high on her cheekbone.

“Ethan Minette is my fiancé, Mr. Mulder,” she said quietly, not meeting his eye.

He nearly staggered back, the past six weeks running like a movie montage on hyper speed through his mind. Minette—on the City Desk at the Times—handing cash under the table to a beat cop on K Street; the Trojan horse on Mulder’s computer, his own scoop running in the Times an hour before the Post went to press; Minette’s hand sliding down the hip of a White House aide before disappearing with her into the coat check room at The Palm.

“I assure you,” he said, scuffing the leather bottom of his shoe on the cold floor of the morgue, “not a whiff. No one will be able to trace this information back to you.”

“Thank you,” she smiled shyly, ducking her head, a lock of copper hair pulling loose from her ponytail to whisp along the delicate line of her jaw. He had to resist the urge to finger it softly back behind the shell of her ear.

Instead he raised the envelope to his temple in a salute, nodded at her and moved toward the door of the autopsy room. He turned back to her when he was within its frame, and she looked up to meet his eye, the glacial blue of her own piercing something deep inside of him.

“It was nice to officially meet you,” he said, and she smiled again.

“Oh, nothing about this was official,” she said, and he huffed a laugh and stepped away, the metal door sucking shut behind him.

2.

He was waiting outside the morgue door when she walked out, paying no attention to her surroundings, her head making a mental list of groceries she needed to pick up on the way home. She was so startled that she had her fist around her pepper spray before she recognized him, holding up a staying hand under the orange soda glow of the street lights, his eyes all apology.

The morgue door had only clicked shut when she heaved a relieved sigh.

"Oh," she said, "it's you." The night was cold and dark around them. It was February; the ugliest time of year in DC.

He smiled at her in the half light and it took her a moment to notice that he was holding out a newspaper toward her in his other hand, the thick stack flopping down as he lifted his arm so that she could read the headline: EVIDENCE SHOWS MASSIVE COVERUP, it read, and she snatched it out of his grip.

"You went to print?!" she asked excitedly. It had been weeks since she’d tipped him off. He nodded.

"Hot off the presses," he said.

She skimmed the article under his byline, reading as fast as she could.

"God, I hope this takes them down," she muttered, still reading, "I hate dirty cops." Her pulse was thrumming.

"It will," he said with confidence, and then shifted a bit on his feet. "Though... it may take your fiancé down with them."

She steeled herself. She'd suspected this was coming since before she'd called Fox Mulder's extension at the Post. So it was true, then. Ethan was in on it. All for a fucking story.

"So be it," she said, and his eyes softened.

"You okay?" he asked. His breath wafted above their heads in a white vapor and something about the softness of his eyes and the wet glint of his generous lower lip made her forget her nerves.

"Yeah," she breathed. "Can I... buy you a drink to celebrate?"

He appeared as surprised as she was by her invitation.

"I know a great place," he said, delighted.

3.

They burst through his door connected at the lips, her hands running over his shoulders to cleave off his suit coat and he stumbled backwards over it as it hit the floor. His blood was singing on a high of lust and gin and the exquisite poetry of her; the Roman cut of her nose, the amber glint of her hair, the way her teeth caught on her s’s.

The slam of the door behind them brought her up short. She pulled back as if surprised to find herself in his apartment, though she'd been the one who'd leaned into his ear at the bar and hissed "take me back to your place," her breath smelling of whiskey and lipstick. She'd been all hands and lips and teeth in the cab.

"You okay?" he asked for the second time that night, out of breath, practically panting, the front of his pants tight.

"I'm--" she started, "I never do this. I'm sorry, I -- I never do this."

"Hey," he said gently, "we don't have to -- I don't expect -- do you want to sit down?"

She nodded, looking shocky, and he led her over to his couch and then slipped into his kitchen, checking every cup and mug in his sparse cabinets until he found one that looked perfectly clean. He pressed the glass into her hands, the ice clicking gently into the sides. He sat on the floor next to the couch to give her space, crossed his legs and tried not to think of his aching cock.

"Ethan is --" she began, "we've been together since high school." She was talking to her lap, half the water chugged before he even sat down. Her blouse was still untucked from when he’d pulled it out of her pants to run a hand over her silk-clad breast in the cab and she was fingering the gold engagement ring on her left hand-- it was an antique-looking thing, something he couldn't see her liking, though he admittedly barely knew her at all.

He nodded at her, wanting to reach a hand out, but opting to rest his arm along the edge of the sofa instead.

"He's cheating on me," she said, a statement. Mulder knew it to be true, but it seemed too self-serving to say anything confirming it, and so he stayed mum. “But we’ve been together so long, and I didn’t want to believe it. And now that I know he’s in on this…” He reached out and touched her knee lightly, and her eyes sharpened. “Tell me something about yourself,” she went on, her voice dropping an octave, “something that no one else knows.”

And so he told her about his sister. About his years-long search for the truth. They talked and talked as she slowly melted into the sofa, her legs stretched out and almost touching him, her head propped up on her elbow.

Finally, she blinked slowly down at him.

“I still feel kind of drunk,” she said, and then yawned.

“Take my bed,” he said, rising to quickly change the sheets. “The bathroom is just over there,” he nodded toward a door. “There’s a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.” He disappeared into the bedroom before she could decline.

She walked through his bedroom doorway on silent feet just as he was shoving the last pillow into a fresh pillowcase. He hugged it to his chest and made his way to the door, smiling at her shyly as he passed. She grabbed his arm gently and he paused, looked down into her sharp starlet eyes. She smelled of toothpaste and faded perfume. Her face had been scrubbed clean.

“Thank you, Mulder,” she said, and let go, her touch practically burning his skin.

4.

She called him three weeks later at work, asked him to meet her for lunch. They sat in the cavernous Les Halles in the District, at a middle table where Mulder kept getting bumped by people making their way to the restroom. The air was filled with the clatter of silverware on plates, a constant murmur of business talk, the expediter calling orders in the kitchen. She wanted to apologize to him.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said, before the words were even halfway out of her mouth. “If anyone should apologize, it should be me.”

He reached out a hand and brushed his fingers lightly over the back of her left hand. He noticed her ring finger was bare and stopped short.

“I was in a relationship and — even though I knew it was over, I should have never -- I stuck my tongue down your throat before you finished your second drink,” she said, blushing, but with a smile.

“Say what you will about the former,” he said, reaching for his sweating water glass, “but don’t you dare apologize for the latter.”

She leaned back in her chair and signaled for the waiter. As the man walked away with their orders, Scully leaned forward, her elbows on the table, fingers laced over her plate.

“Detective Cho came to our apartment as Ethan was packing up his things last week,” she said, attempting to keep a cheeky smile from her lips. Mulder’s eyebrows rose to his hairline, though he wasn’t sure which part of her statement surprised him most. “The DA was with her,” she went on, finally cracking a grin.

“You think Ethan will cop a plea?” Mulder asked excitedly, half his brain already on the phone to Skinner, his editor, the other half already writing the story.

“Take out your notebook, and I’ll tell you everything,” she said.

5.

Mulder was on the steps of the courthouse eating a street hot dog when she came clicking down them in her best pumps. She’d been called as a witness in many cases in her life, but never before one in which one of the accused was somebody she had once loved.

She still felt shaky and overdrawn, but just the sight of his sable hair, his strong profile against the sidewalk, settled her nerves.

They hadn’t seen each other in months, but had taken to talking on the phone in the late evening, initially about the story and the case, eventually dropping any pretense and talking just to hear each other’s voice. It had gotten to the point where if she didn’t hear his low timbre each night before bed, she’d have trouble sleeping.

He turned when he sensed her and stood when he saw her, his face blossoming into a pleased smile.

She stopped two steps above him, which made them the same height. His eyes looked mossy in the sun, his lashes long sweeps along his skin.

“The courtroom smells like a Pulitzer,” she said, “I’m surprised you’re not in there.”

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat and shrugged.

“And miss a day like this?” he said, the sun glinting off his hair as off a robin’s wing.

“You know, I really thought a sharp wit like you would come in with a line like ‘the real prize is out here,’ but I guess I lobbed the softball a little low,” she teased.

He smiled, shrugged again.

“What can I say?” he said, “I like the high ones.”

He had a smudge of mustard on the edge of his mouth, and she reached out and wiped it slowly off of him with her thumb, the scrape of his five o’clock shadow rasping.

She had a sudden almost-psychic sexual flash of his lush mouth opening wetly over the rise of her mons, of his long, warm hands running slowly up the back of her thigh, could practically feel his low, satisfied moan flushing up her skin.

She blinked away the fantasy but held it in her mind, smiled and reached for his arm, coming down the steps until she was even with him and he turned to walk with her.

“So it’s done then,” he said, finally pulling his hands from the depths of his coat pockets and reaching out until his hand was resting on the small of her back. “Can I buy you a drink to celebrate?”

She smiled into the sunshine and leaned into his touch.

[gimmesumsuga]

Sweeter Than Sweet (1)

Pairing: Jimin x reader + others as the story progresses

Warnings: None to note.

Summary:  You never would have expected someone like Park Jimin to notice you.  As handsome and beguiling as he is deadly, you’re enthralled from the very moment you meet.  Addicted to his kiss and his bite, Jimin opens up your eyes to a whole new world of love, lust and seduction.

Word count: 2.5K

As of this July (2020), Sweeter than Sweet turned three years old! As I'm currently in the midst of a horrendous writing slump (urgh) I've decided to go back and slowly work my way through, editing chapter by chapter, as I feel that some parts could do with a fair bit of tweaking.

For those of you who've already read it, there won't be any major plot changes - just tightening up of grammar/plot holes/dialogue. For those of you who're new to Sweeter than Sweet, I sincerely hope you enjoy yourself ^^

Feedback is always encouraged and appreciated! Thank you <3

*Chapter edited as of 07/08/20* 

Next

“You coming, or what?” With a gleefully mischievous expression, your friend glances back at you over her shoulder, her pretty face framed by full, dark curls. You nod and smile to mollify her but the moment that her back is turned your nervous eyes begin scanning the room; darting this way and that, corner to corner.

The club is packed, hot bodies thronging as far as the eye can see as you trail closely behind your companion, grimacing at the feel of sweaty arms brushing against you as you squeeze your way by.  If you’re being honest, clubbing has never really been your thing and neither have crowds; especially not ones this loud and drunken.  

You have to admit, though: there’s a sense of anonymity that comes with blending between dancers in the dark that appeals to you - contentment in becoming just another nameless body amongst the writhing masses.  Barely anyone even pays you a second glance, and why should they?  By no means is this your usual playground, nor a place you feel much at home.  

You find your way to the bar and join your friend eventually, hopping into a newly vacated stool with a heavy sigh of relief.  Maybe if you’re sat down Sam might be less likely to try dragging you onto the dance floor.  You can live in hope, after all.

“What's your poison?” she calls over the thumping music.  Her hips are already swinging back and forth to the bass as you inspect the assortment of colourful bottles lining the back wall, squinting your eyes in hopes of spotting a name you might recognise.  You end up none the wiser for doing so, however, resorting to eyeing the drink that’s just landed in front of Sam instead; a bright orange concoction that the barman pours with a flourish into a tall cocktail glass.  

“I’ll just have what you’re having!” you call, raising your voice in an attempt to be heard over the din that surrounds you.  You’re not sure you’re successful, to be honest, but Sam must understand your gesticulating well enough because minutes later an identical drink lands in front of you - cocktail umbrella and all.  You take a cautious sip whilst your friend looks around - searching for tonight’s prey, no doubt - and you’re relieved that she misses the way you grimace at the drink’s slightly bitter aftertaste. She’d only make you down it even faster if she had.

“Lots of cute guys tonight!” Sam observes enthusiastically, her eyebrows lifting as she sips her drink and blinks back at you from over the rim.  

“Mmmhm,” you agree non-committedly, casting a glance around to at least feign some sort of interest.  

The guys you tend to find in these kinds of places have never particularly appealed to you.  They’re only after one thing, usually - with no shame about showing it - and whilst you’re sure there are some women out there that find that kind of sleazy, fuckboy confidence attractive, you’re not one of them.  

“You coming to dance?”  You don’t even bother to reply to Sam’s question, simply cocking your head to the side and shooting her a wry smile at the fact she’d even ask.  “Fair enough,” she grins, shrugging her shoulders. Undeterred by your lack of enthusiasm, she downs her cocktail in a series of impressive gulps and then heads out into the crowd, her jacket slung over the back of your stool left behind as your only company.  

Maybe if you were the more sociable sort you might mind being left to your own devices.  As it is, though, you’re quite content to sit quietly at the bar, singing under your breath as your head bobs.  The music is one of the only perks that keep you agreeing to come back here whenever Sam gets that certain ‘itch’ that only booze and boys can scratch.  That, along with your total inability to ever say no, of course. 

It’s a shame the drinks are so watered-down; you might actually start having a good time if they packed a little more of a punch.  By the time you’re half-way down your second, though, you're starting to think that maybe they’re not so bad.  With each sip you take the more pleasant the taste becomes (but then maybe that's just the schnapps talking). 

You’re busily sucking on a slice of orange when Sam returns, breathless but happy.  She brushes back the pieces of fringe stuck to her forehead as she grins at you, the scent of her perfume and perspiration hitting your nose.  

“Fuck it’s hot,” she declares, fanning herself with her hands.  Abruptly, she turns on the spot and grabs an empty glass straight out the hands of the man standing next to her, tipping what little ice remains into her palm.  You can’t help but laugh as the poor boy then gawps, open-mouthed, while Sam rubs said ice across her flushed chest with a sigh of relief, totally unconcerned with the streaks of water that dribble down the front of her dress as it melts.

You can’t blame him for staring.  Sam’s gorgeous and always has been, with her raven coloured hair and killer curves.  Even if she were a wallflower like you, she’d probably still be the centre of attention. 

“Thanks!” she smiles sweetly, promptly dismissing him with a turn of her back and a flip of her hair before he has hopes of starting up a conversation.  

“You’re ridiculous,” you grin, popping the orange slice back into your mouth with a shake of your head.  Sam casts you a roguish wink, about to turn and order another drink when all of a sudden her eyes widen, looking beyond you to someone sitting further down the bar.

“Maybe I am,” she admits, corner of her lip curling into a smirk, “ But so’s he .”  She nods her head in the direction she’s looking as an indicator for you to turn and look too; the idea of being subtle not even crossing your mind before you swivel round in your seat to follow her eye-line, orange peel still gripped between your teeth.

It’s immediately obvious who your friend is talking about - a man leaning against the bar just a few metres away whose appearance is so startling that it borders on impropriety. The strobe lights paint his face with striking shades of blue and green in perfect time with the music, highlighting his cheekbones and flawlessly smooth skin to give him an almost ethereal look.  He's unlike anyone else you’ve ever seen.  Beautiful beyond words.  

You’d expect people to be crowding around him - to be vying for his attention - but it’s almost as though there’s some invisible force keeping them at bay; something stopping them getting too close.  He’s given a wide berth; a respectful distance that makes you think perhaps they’re able to sense the powerful aura emanating from him, too.  

He’s alluring and alarming all at once, but even more so when he turns his head and his eyes lock onto yours.  

Caught, you quickly look away, pulling the fruit from your mouth as your head turns.  It’s disturbing how shaken you feel from nothing more than a little eye contact - how hard the mere sight of him has your heart pounding.  

“Go for it.”  You hope Sam won’t notice the falter in your smile or how feeble your enthusiasm sounds. “He’s cute.”  This won’t be the first time you’ve felt envious of Sam’s good looks and it probably won’t be the last, but you’ve never allowed that jealousy to get in the way of your friendship.  Any inferiority complex you may have is your problem, not hers.

And hey, at least this way you might get to live vicariously.  

“Sweetie,” she coos, stepping closer so she can speak into your ear whilst keeping her eyes on the stranger. “Trust me, I would, but I don’t think I’m the one he’s after.”  

“Really?” The question escapes your lips before you can think about how pathetically eager you must sound.

“Really.”  You risk another glance and sure enough, the stranger is still looking, his eyes unblinking as he stirs at the drink in front of him with a straw.  Swallowing hard, you turn away, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as you feel your cheeks begin to fill with heat.

Is it just embarrassment that’s to blame, or could it be the intensity of his gaze making them burn?  

“You gonna go over?”

“You think I should?” you ask in reply, flustered by this unfamiliar situation in which you find yourself.  You’re not used to this; have no idea what to do or how to act. Do you even want his attention?  You’re about to ask Sam for her pearls of wisdom when her doe eyes suddenly widen once more, her hands flapping against your forearm in excitement.

“He’s coming!” she squeals, grinning maniacally as she grabs the drink that’s appeared in front of her in preparation to make a hasty exit. 

“Don’t you dare, Samantha!  You dare leave me!” you hiss through gritted teeth, pleading with your eyes, but it’s no good.  Seconds later and she’s gone, slipped off into the crowd with a parting ‘thumbs up’ like the vile traitor she is.  You lean on the bar, your forehead resting on the palm of your hand as you close your eyes and try to slow the pace of your shallow, panicky breaths.

This is just a mistake.  It has to be.  There’s no way a guy that gorgeous would- 

“Hello.”  A sweet, soft voice finds your ears and you jump to attention, sitting bolt upright and eyes blown wide.  

Sam wasn’t mistaken.  It really must’ve been you that he was looking at because now he’s here , standing right beside you with a playful smile upon his face and very little regard for the concept of personal space.  

As impossible as it may seem, the man before you is even more bewitching up close than he had been from a distance; his eyes dark and piercing, lips thick and plump.  Gawking, you find yourself utterly lost for words, but thankfully the beautiful stranger’s smile just grows, his lips parting to reveal a perfect set of sparkling white teeth.

“I’m Jimin.”  He introduces, placing his drink down beside yours, his eyebrows slowly rising the more time that goes by without you giving any form of reply.    

Oh god, why won’t your mouth work?  What's wrong with you?! 

“I could just call you jagiya if you don’t want to tell me your name, sweetheart,” he smiles, and you can’t help but watch with fascination at the way his mouth twists around the foreign word; so melodic in comparison to your native tongue.  

Blushing at the term of endearment he so casually bestows on you, you blurt out your name in a hurry and chase it with a rather large, hurried gulp of your drink.  Tunefully, Jimin laughs at your nervousness, his grey bangs falling into his eyes only to be pushed back with a brush of a delicate hand; the gesture well-practised and smooth.  You’re relieved that Jimin looks merely amused by your awkwardness rather than pitying. Honestly, you’re wondering why on earth he’s still here given that you've already let slip how socially inept you can be. 

Mustering your courage, you swallow your nerves and fold your hands together in your lap; something to hold onto. 

“I don't get out much, I guess.  You can probably tell," you admit sheepishly, avoiding his gaze out of embarrassment.  You still catch the corner of his mouth curling into a hint of a smile, though, and it draws your eyes back to his face; a moth to a flame.  

“Never would've guessed.”  There’s a slight accent to the tone with which he teases, but you’re not well travelled enough to hazard a guess as to where he might be from.  It’s a charming lilt, nonetheless. 

Jimin places one hand on the back of your stool, leaning in, and his proximity has your heart hammering in your chest as you catch a whiff of his aftershave, sweet and heady.  

“Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?”  His breath caresses your ear and the hairs on the back of your neck rise, enticed.  Jimin pulls back just enough so as to look into your eyes, and you find yourself fighting the urge to confess that you’d happily be anywhere else as long as he was there with you.  

Best not to seem too desperate, after all.  

“At home,” you reply, eyes downcast as you speak quietly into your lap.  Somehow, Jimin still manages to hear you.  “In bed.”  Realising how easily your words might be misconstrued, you quickly meet his gaze, cheeks flushing as you add, “Reading.  Watching TV.  Nothing too exciting.” 

Jimin is so intense, so focused on your every word, that you can barely stand to look at him.

“And is there someone missing you there tonight?” he asks, the hand that was resting on the stool shifting, grazing the lightest of touches down the length of your arm.  Goosebumps rise in his wake.  “At home? In bed?”

“No.”  You bite your lip, hands tightening around one another.  Your palms are sweating. “No one.”  You can’t quite hear the sound he makes but you could guess that he’s tutting, his face twisting in displeasure as he does so.

“How can it be-” Jimin questions, stepping close enough that the tops of his thighs kiss your knees, “- that a woman like you.” The fingers that were dancing along your arm reach up to tuck the hair that’s fallen in front of your face behind your ear, gentle.  “A beautiful woman like you.”  Jimin takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger to keep you from looking away, and though you love each and every touch, oh, you wish he wouldn't.  It's too hard to breathe when he’s looking in your eyes; too close when he's leaning over you. “Spends a single night alone?”  

A beat passes and you know he’s expecting an answer by the way his head tilts subtly to the side, but once again you're stricken dumb.  Why on earth would someone like him ever want somebody like you? You keep expecting him to suddenly laugh; to sneer at you and tell you all this attention has been nothing but a lie - a cruel joke at your expense.  

Instead, Jimin does the opposite and closes the gap between you to place his lips on yours.  It's a chaste, fleeting kiss, and it catches you so off guard that you completely forget that you’re supposed to do anything more than just sit there like a statue.  Lucky it's so brief, or else you might just make a fool of yourself. 

“So sweet…” The words are sighed against your mouth before he pulls away, and as he straightens to his full height and runs his thumb along the angle of your jaw, you notice his Adam’s apple bob heavily in his throat.  

Perhaps your drink was stronger than usual, or maybe you drank it too fast?  Surely that can be the only reason that your head feels like it’s swimming - dizzy with excitement.  Tipsiness doesn’t explain the unfamiliar unfurling of heat in your abdomen, though, nor the ache between your legs that only grows as you Jimin’s eyes linger on the curve of your neck.  His look is pure heat; seduction oozing from every pore as he offers you his hand with a slow, easy smile.

“Come with me."